The Harvest of Kairos Encounter Group

By Dan
Page 1 of 1

SCENE: A comfortable, spacious office, with a wide
window looking out onto the blackness of space, a
blackness almost as dark and full of mystery as the
clothes of AVON, who is reclining on one of three
couches. As ever, or at least when not knocked
unconscious, he looks intent and alert. Regrettably,
he is intent on something resembling a granite
sculpture of a bath sponge, which he is holding in
both hands and submitting to such contemplation that
he might draw it.

SERVALAN, on an adjoining couch, is studying Avon, as
if he were the genetically modified crossbreed of her
lover and her lunch. She is wearing a white
off-the-shoulder number with a representation in gold
wire filament of the entire battle of Star One holding
it together. Just about. She occasionally essays
breathing, then thinks better of it.

The last couch is occupied by TARRANT. He is wearing
one of his Vegas-period Elvis outfits - all shiny
white, a sort of metaphorical referent to his teeth.
The ensemble is set off by a crimson sash, to which
are stitched all his Boy Scout badges.

"Perhaps we should begin. In many ways, starting to
share is the hardest thing of all. Of course, I
wouldn't know. Nothing is difficult for a
psychostrategist. Except finding somebody acute enough
to share with. Which is, by my calculations, an
impossibility, although I still respond to personal
ads for some reason.

"But I digress. Avon, would you like to kick off?"

Avon's eyes do not flicker from the sponge for a
second.

"I am looking at my rock. While I am looking at my
rock, I do not indulge in illogical, irrelevant
activities such as 'kicking off'. Not for you,
Carnell. Not for anyone. I have every confidence that
you will be able to steer this encounter group to a
successful conclusion, just as the tedious regularity
with which I have found myself rescuing Tarrant in no
way alters my conviction that he is fit to do exactly
what he wishes with the Liberator while I am busy
looking at my rock. Up to and including a Kairopan
heist despite the presence on the Liberator of
phenomenal, absurd wealth.

"Normally, I would be impatient with such a proposal.
Then, however, as now, I was looking. At. My. Rock.
Tarrant, take over."

Tarrant is worrying at the seams of his trousers. For
some reason, he can't seem to get them both straight
at the same time. But why, why would anybody design
trousers which physically could not be worn in such a
way that they would look other than ridiculous? It
would be madness, even in the context of the wilder
costume ideas the System had spun off in its lighter
moments.

Tarrant has been feeling like that a lot lately - a
man in ill-fitting trousers. He's never sure if he's
the alpha male or the sex symbol, a brilliant
tactician or the team-leading strategist. He thinks
he's in charge of the Liberator, but he should
probably check with Avon. Avon's good with this sort
of thing.

Anyway, firm, decisive action. That's what Tarrants
do. That's what people called Del do. He has a double
dose of decisive. Time to use it.

"If anyone's going to share their feelings here, it
should be me. I've got the best chance of making it
back alive. Avon, Carnell, Servalan - none of you have
the skills to navigate a difficult emotional situation
like this. No arguments!"

"Talk to the rock, Tarrant."

"Hmmm. I predicted another three seconds of bluster.
Must be the trousers. Please, go on."

"Yes, and do hurry up. This clasp isn't getting any
lighter."

"Well, I've always been in control of my destiny. As a
Starfleet officer, and then as a pirate, I did what I
wanted, when I wanted. It's been quite an adjustment,
having Avon tell me to evade the latest federation
attack, then make the tea.

"So, when he found this rock, I was delighted, at
first. At last, a chance for me to take control!"

Carnell steeples his hands.

"I see. And you didn't find being considered less
interesting company than a rock at all.....castrating?"

"Not until now. Anyway, however snide Avon may want to
get, it was a brilliant plan - we may have huge piles
of gold and other precious resources in the Liberator,
but we can always do with some more. They brighten the
place up.

But then, as soon as Jarvik came along - even before I
knew he was there - suddenly I'm back at school and
being bullied. My skin got all prickly and my brain
stopped working -"

"Stopped?"

"Look at your rock, Avon. And I start making mistakes,
and Avon just keeps rescuing me and rescuing me, but
I'm making mistakes faster than he can sort them out
and he's still basically only interested in that
bloody rock and he's even more competent than I am
when he's being weird and Jarvik was always better
than me at flight school and it's not fair and I want
my brother!"

"Hmmm. There, there, Tarrant. I'm sure you'll see him
soon. Servalan, you look as if you'd like to
contribute. Can you sympathise with Tarrant?"

"Carnell, a moment. Servalan, look at my rock. Do you
see a Space Commander just a little bit more
reptilian, merciless and beautiful than yourself?"

"I see a rock."

"Bugger. Back to the drawing board."

"If I may speak....thank you. My relationship with
Jarvik....well, it all moved so fast. I'm not usually
the kind to throw myself at people (Tarrant, Carnell
and Avon exchange looks), but by the second date I was
ready to split rulership of the Federation with him. I
was practically picking out bedlinen....and that's only
because he wasn't happy with the Liberator. For
heaven's sake.

"It's just that.....he was so.....manly. I remember that
time when he threw something and it broke a video
screen. I've never met anyone who could break a video
screen before. And he was so...confident. Cocky, even.
Actually, I think he may have been psychotic. But I
remember his first words. 'Woman....you are beautiful'.
Part of me wanted to say 'Man....you are the patriarchy
made flesh. Break me!'"

"Yes," mused Tarrant, "Always worked very well in
bars, too. Well, on the more primitive worlds. The
ones without spoken language, that kind of thing."

"Ah, Tarrant, Tarrant, Tarrant. You're not half the
man Jarvik was."

"Why do people keep saying that?"

"I don't. He is a dead fool, you are a live one. I'd
say that proves something about your relative merits.
Although I am not entirely certain what. Look at my
rock."

"You see," Servalan's voice is raised, now - she hates
being upstaged, "sometimes I, too, Supreme Space
Commander of the Terran Federation, hate being a woman
in a man's world. I hate the drab clothes I have to
wear to the office (more exchanges of looks). I hate
the way that people see me only as a superior, not as
a superior woman (more exchanges of looks). That I
must behave like the machines I surround myself with,
never flirt, never be cocquettish, never just enjoy my
womanhood (it's a full-on three-way staring match,
now". When Jarvik launched a non-stop assault on my
gender, it was as if I was finally being seen as weak,
contemptible, worthy of note only as a sexual object
and just desperate to cede my hard-won position of
responsibility to the first man in overalls who came
along...at last, I was being seen as (the arms are
outspread, apparently pointing out two diametrically
opposite places of local interest) a woman!"

"And the sex?"

"No foreplay, thirty seconds of grunting, not a hint
of concern for my pleasure, fell asleep right after.
Very validating."

"Ahem. Well, it certainly seems as if Jarvik made
everyone behave irrationally. Perhaps
there's....perhaps....per....WILL YOU STOP PLAYING WITH THAT
SODDING ROCK?"

Carnell, his book-learned cool folded, spindled and
mutilated, grabs the sopron from Avon's hands. He knew
there'd be days like this. He even knew when those
days would be. But even he's not expecting it to
squish like a moondisk omelette.